


Homecoming

by HostisHumaniGeneris



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Eldritch, Large Cock, Other, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24991759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HostisHumaniGeneris/pseuds/HostisHumaniGeneris
Summary: She found the book in some old things that belonged to the mother she never really knew.  She looked deep into it's history, trying to figure out who wrote it, and what it meant.She soon learns to regret that decision.
Relationships: Eldritch Father/Human Daughter
Comments: 12
Kudos: 62
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Val_Creative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/gifts).



Sally tentatively knocked on the door, heart pounding in her chest as she did. She was so very, very nervous, had been ever since she got out of the Uber. Walking up the cracked driveway and up the sinking stone steps, every sound making her flinch. The cawing of the chorus line of crows perched in the bare tree in the front yard made her whip around.

It had been two weeks since she’d last had a pleasant night’s sleep. Two long, eternal weeks. Maybe a day or so since she’d slept last, and she felt it. Aunt Emma asked if she wanted to see a Dr. Reade. Sally was suddenly struck by how bad an idea refusing it was.

After an eternity, the door opened. Professor LeClerc was tall and narrow, a pale scarecrow of a man with a nervous, wild look on his face that was not brightened up when he grinned slightly and said “Ah, Miss Young. You’re a little early.”

“I’m sorry, I must’ve mistimed how long the ride was, if you want me to wait—” She stammered out. 

“Ah, nonsense, Miss Young. I too, have been anxious ever since I heard about your… query.” He said, fidgeting and twitching a little. He looked like he’d been awake as long as she had. “Please, come in.”

Professor LeClerc’s home seemed nigh-on abandoned; it was utterly devoid of ornamentation. No pictures, no frames. Only stacks and stacks of books, awkwardly arranged all over the place. LeClerc was looking at her over his shoulder, knocked a stack over, half-bent to right it, shrugged his shoulders, and then straightened and leave them lay. “It can wait.”

He led her through a kitchen that looked like it had been trapped in the fifties—a somewhat more recent stove did little to obscure the old linoleum floor or Formica countertops. A table in the corner was piled with books and papers, with one space cleared enough for a dirty plate to lay on. The professor picked an old kettle off of the stove. “I had some tea right before you came—the water’s still warm. Would you like a cup?”

“Sure.” It was the polite thing. “Calms the nerves, right?”

He smiled another mirthless smile and said “Yes.”

The professor poured steaming water in two large cups, then picked them up and left the kitchen, motioning her to follow. Some mostly-clear liquid dripped on the floor his hands were shaking so bad. She followed him through a well-beaten path cutting through a shaggy carpet, to a small, cramped library. Or a den converted into a library. Two ancient-looking high-backed chairs flanked a small table. Professor LeClerc took a seat, setting the cups of tea on the table. He motioned, and she sat down across from him.

“So…” The Professor said, looking at her in a way that felt he wasn’t even seeing her. He pushed one of the mugs along the table to her. She didn’t really feel thirsty, but took a sip of the piping hot beverage anyway. It was bordering on tasteless, and needed to steep a little more. His jaw worked a little as he drummed his fingers on the table. “…about the book.”

Sally set her messenger bag on her lap and unzipped it, pulling the old, leatherbound book out and handing it to him. He traced his fingers along the cracked and wrinkled cover, nodding, before flipping it open and leafing through some yellow-brown pages. His eyes widened. “And… where did you say you got this?”

“My mother.” He hadn’t asked where she had gotten the book earlier, when she first sent him some pictures of it. Hadn’t seemed to care. He just sent her some translation for the cover, and asked her to come.

Taking the creepy old book to the creepy old man had seemed like a great idea at the time.

“Ah, was she a collector of rare books?” He said, nervously smiling as he carefully flipped through pages of rusty script. 

“I… never really knew her. She… was not well.” Sally’s mother was hospitalized around the time she was born. Sally’s father—nobody knew him. “I grew up with my aunt and uncle—they never said anything like that.”

“My sympathies.” He didn’t even look up as he said that, instead continuing to flip through the book. His lips moved as he silently looked over the script.

“This… the book was in a box of my mom’s belongings we found when cleaning out the basement of grandma’s house.” Grandma had died recently, and Aunt Emma brought Sally along to go through the old belongings. The boxful of mom’s personal things—Aunt Emma and Sally smuggled it out of the house—some of Emma’s other siblings would probably hock everything, and she felt Sally deserved something of her mom’s.

“I see.” The Professor said, flatly.

“I don’t know where she got it from.” Sally added, it seemed important to say. “Like, I dunno if I want to donate it to the school or something, if you need to know.”

The book was really old, and written in something that wasn’t in any alphabet she could figure out. She worried her lower lip with her teeth as she tracked the reddish lettering. Could it have been stolen from some museum or collections? How would her mom have done that, as a first year college student before she… got sick?

“No, that won’t be necessary.” The professor said, looking up at Sally. “I don’t think the University would want this book anyways—its not supposed to exist.”

“Not supposed to…”

“It’s a story of ancient gods—the kind that were old when the figures the Sphinx was new. Very few people could ever read this. And a translation would be laughed at—there’s no historical record for anything it attests to… not counting the book itself.”

“The book is that old?” Sally asked. She knew it was old, but that would make it _thousands_ of years old.

“No, no.” LeClerc corrected. “It’s a retelling. Like say, if you were to purchase a work of Homer’s from Amazon. It’s a translation of a copy of an oral retelling of an oral retelling of a story. Only this story is much older than one about any wooden horse.”

“So it’s an old book about gods that nobody believed in?” Sally brushed some hair from her face, grimacing at how her hand came back wet from sweat. 

It was not a warm day, and the room was not warm.

“Not nobody.” LeClerc said. “See here.”

He flipped pages rapidly. The same rusty red squiggles, but different? It looked like… “They’re in different handwriting?”

“Yes.” LeClerc confirmed. He flipped pages, gesturing to demonstrate the differences between the incongruous scribbles. “The first section of this manuscript was written say… before Gutenberg made his press in the fourteen-hundreds. Here, this part was written a century later. This section—was when Isaac Newton had begun poisoning himself with mercury in his alchemical pursuits….”

He flipped past more sections, stopping halfway through the book. “…All of these were written by true believers. Some of whom claim to have met a god, their god, the god, in person.”

Sally hadn’t really looked through the book much longer to confirm that she didn’t know what was written. It made her skin crawl to look at it, and she’d never noticed the different writing. But now, as LeClerc turned the book to face her, something abut the script made her heart speed up, her breathing grow ragged.

“Is there something wrong, Miss Young?”

“I… this is crazy, professor, but this writing, looks like my mother’s.” Sally blurted out. She’d seen a few letters written by her mother—her sister kept the ones written when she just went to college. They were in English, using the regular alphabet, alphabet, but there was something in the way they curved that reminded her of the crazy text in front.

She scrutinized the page hard, as the Professor explained. “Each contribution to this book begins with the writer recounting the previous tales. And then adding their own.”

Sally blinked as she studied it harder and harder, seeing the squiggles and squares take on meaning. 

Sally’s hands were trembling as she flipped through page after page. If what LeClerc said was true, and mom was copying the original writer—there was no reason for someone who wrote in the before Galileo to know about the Big Bang or how the sun was formed—when she stammered that out, the Professor shrugged and said that maybe her mother was writing in what she thought was meant by the older stories. 

There were all sorts of things, facts about nature that Sally couldn’t imagine _mom_ knowing. A series of prophecies—not the vague kind where words that seemed profound could mean anything, but very specific. There was no way mom, a college kid in the 1990s, could predict a fire in their hometown in 2004, or economic crash in 2008, or the winners of the presidencies starting with Bush, Jr.. But she did.

And there was Mom’s story.

Sally couldn’t finish it, slamming the book shut and leaning back, heart racing. She glanced up at LeClerc, who studied her face intently. “What did it say?”

My mom killed people because she believed a big stupid book of mythology.

“Nothing.”

Without waiting, LeClerc looked through the book again, obviously looing at the halfway mark, where Sally had stopped. She stood, intending to grab it from him, as he read aloud. Not in English.

She sank back in her chair, gritting her teeth, trying to work up the will to stand. To cover her ears, to scream, as LeClerc read her mother’s prose. He skipped her retelling the legends, and straight on, to how she found the dusty book in the school library, and spent a month trying to understand it—and got hooked. The long, rambling sentences describing how she kept secret and made the necessary offerings.

He got to the point she quit and paused. He flipped a page or two forward, and then kept, not slowing in the slightest. There was a shift—things became disjointed, with her repeating the phrase ‘He-Who-Commands’ over and over, with little variations. He-Who-Commands lied to me. He-Who-Commands cannot be real. He-Who-Commands is wrong, the world is wrong. He-Who-Commands fucked me. He-Who-Commands infected her with a monster.

Grandma hated Sally. It almost was like she blamed the girl for her mother’s break.

When he finished, LeClerc closed the book and sat back. “So.”

“So what?!” Sally finally found the voice to what she wanted to say. “So fucking what?!”

He sharply inhaled, clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “I imagine this was hard for you. To find out…”

“My mom was crazy. She scribbled in a book. Doesn’t mean anything.” Sally spat back, glaring daggers at LeClerc. He didn’t seem to register any of it as he looked at her. She had come to _him_ to see if he could translate. She shouldn’t be shooting the messenger like this, but she needed someone to lash out at. “And you fucking look like you believe it.”

“I do.” LeClerc said, running his fingers across the cover of the book. He grinned a little. “Strange coincidence, don’t you think? You find the book, and the first person to offer to translate it teaches at the college your mother found the book at?”

“What the fuck does it have to do with anything?” Sally spat, and then, when the words had scarcely left her mouth, she added. “Did you know her?”

“Yes. She was… gifted. I thought, maybe she could understand. But… it was all too much for her. It has been a long time since anyone reacted as badly as she did.” He said, as his lips curled up. “Although nobody else had ever gotten to know me as well as she did.”

“Fuck you.” Sally swore, getting up, face red. What the Hell was he talking about. She dipped her hand into the side pocket of her bag , keys jingling a little. “I’m out of here.”

“I knew she had gone broke, but… I always had a blindspot for her. When she left, I had no idea what had happened to her until… well, I’d say until I read her words, but you are the spitting image of your mother.” LeClerc was up again, looming over her, stepping forward. Sally stepped back. 

“Back off.” Sally tried to keep her tone measured, as her heart beat like crazy. She worked her housekeys in between her fingers, improvised brass knuckles. He rushed at her, and she punched him, right in the face. Her keys sank into his cheek. Like a spoon jabbed into jello. There was _some_ resistance, but not a lot. And bony as he was, the keys hit nothing solid at all. Something tricked against her knuckles, cold and thick, that flowed against gravity and curled around her hand. “What the fuck?!”

“I’ve a confession to make, Miss Young.” LeClerc said, pulling the keys free, alongside a strip of flesh from his cheek on down. The wound unraveled, and things moved and undulated, reaching for her. “I’m not really a college professor.”

“What… what the fuck are you?”

“You look so much like your mother. She wasn’t quite so profane though.” He stepped forward, taller, leaner. A hand with too many fingers, bending the right and wrong ways, reached in her direction. Sally turned to run, the floor _squirming_ underneath her. That shaggy carpet flowed upward, wrapping around her ankles. She struggled to get free, as a cold and coiled around her bicep. “I do hope you don’t break as easily.”

She screamed when she looked back, seeing his lower jaw _drip_ down, something in the gaping hole opening, and a green eye blinking, focusing on her. The rest of LeClerc’s head rolled back, like a Pez dispenser. Made of meat and slime and rot. Sally wheeled around and tried to punch, right at that eye. She hit it, right over the pupil, and winced. It was wet but _solid_. It almost felt like she broke her hand.

She managed to wrench a leg free and kicked at one of the monster’s legs, accomplishing nothing—it was firmly rooted in, or blended into the ground. She fell to the carpet, shrieking at the sucking coldness that held her fast, like flypaper. She tried shrugging her way out of her jacket, failing to do so as things coiled around her wrists.

More eyes popped into existence in the pole of meat that used to be LeClerc—the thing mushroomed the lean body growing broader and wider at the top. Metal-colored spikes burst out of the writhing blue matter.

It thrust something to her chest, hard enough to force a cough. 

It was the book, open, facing down against her chest. The monster dangled it over her face, demanding in a chorus of voices. “Read it.”

It had to repeat itself several times, Sally was dumbstruck by the command. Winding strips of rot against the limbs tightened painfully, lashed against her belly. The demand continued. “Read it!”

Her throat ached as he read. It was the part LeClerc had skipped when he read her mother’s story. It was a lot like her ending, the mad ranting about He-Who-Commands. Except instead of that title, she referred to the thing as “My Lover”.

My love makes the best tea. Sally’s stomach churned and boiled.

My lover taught me the truth, taught me to read. The characters swirled and undulated over Sally’s eyes.

My lover has the loveliest eyes. A dozen eyeballs wept and blinked above Sally.

My lover has the sweetest voice. A chorus of voices continued to exhort her to read.

My lover makes me feel so good. The denim of Sally’s pants was shredded as the book was yanked from her hands and flung aside.

A dozen tiny limbs stroked the back of her bare legs as claws and teeth cut every stitch of clothing off of her. She was prodded and pinched and stroked, and she screamed until something icy flowed over her cheek and into her mouth. She thrashed and gagged as it pushed down her throat. 

“So scared… yet maybe there’s a bit of a spark of me in you, child.” The chorus said, running a hand, or hands with too many fingers down her thigh. She tried to close her legs unsuccessfully. “Your mother broke when I was through with her… but perhaps you are stronger.”

When those fingers found her vagina, spreading her lips and curiously probing. A lyrical piping assaulted her ears. “Your mother was a virgin, too. She was a gibbering wreck by this time. I had to hold the pen for her when we finished.”

She managed the werewithal to mutter two syllables against the cloying sweetness in her throat. 

More piping. At least three handfuls of fingers were fumbling about between her legs, stroking her clit, prodding her ass, curling around her body. “Ah… you still have that spark. Maybe you are stronger than she was.”

Those fingers plunged in, along with the limb in her throat. Deep. She inaudibly screamed against something viscous and fluid as she felt burning pain. More hands wandered up her body, scraping against her belly, squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples. Her eyes watered and she shook her head. 

“I can _taste_ your want, child.”

She bucked, and the limbs around her tightened and held her fast. She was nipped and pinched and licked and sucked by the too many limbs against her. Eyes darted over her, then locked on her face. She shut her own eyes. It didn’t work—she could _see_ him see her see him through her closed eyes.

“Ever since you found my book, you haven’t slept. You haven’t been able to focus on anything else.”

She arched her back as the fingers between her legs thrusted and stroked. She shrugged and shook and tried to get out from under the creature. It hurt when they initially drove in, but the stimulation hurt less and less the more it fingered and played with her. She was horrified when she realized that some of her movements, the little ways she moved her hips or bridged her back, were helping those limbs find the exact right spot.

“You said you wanted a translation. Or maybe you just told yourself you wanted to hear its value, to hock it. Or maybe you wanted to find out about your mother…” The thing kept talking. “But deep down, at your core, you wanted me.”

She shook her head, and then gasped as the thing withdrew. From her mouth, from her ass, from her vagina. She coughed and sputtered, and turned her head when those eyes came down low, inches from her own. “Go to hell.”

Something dug painfully into her back, right between her shoulder blades. She spun and tumbled, landing on her knees before the floor grabbed and yanked her down again, pressing her chest against the writhing mass of limbs. 

In front of her was a floor-length mirror—something she had not noticed. Except…

The woman, on her knees in front of the monster wasn’t her. Hair was brown all the way, instead of the dyed blonde that Sally’s was. She was mumbling and muttering something, over and over again. 

“My lover makes me feel so good.” She muttered, eyes glazed and unfocused, chin wet from a stream of drool. She kept up the chant until the moment of penetration, when it turned into a scream.

Sally screamed at that. She had to be going crazy.

Dozens of fingers coiled a about her hips, scraped at her shoulders, reached under her to maul her breasts, penetrated her ass. Something thick pressed against her vagina again. “Oh god, no.”

“Call me by name.” The chorus said. “And maybe I’ll be merciful.”

“He-who-commands?” She muttered, feeling something solid and thick push against her. “Um… Profess-professor LeClerc? ‘My lover’?”

The next guess was lost to a scream as she was _full_ , the suddenness at which it drove deep inside her hurt. It fucked her relentlessly, while the hallucination of Sally’s mother, limp, wide eyed, just repeated ‘my lover’. She screamed and shrieked as it kept fucking her. He was going to rip her apart, it felt like. She screamed and cried and hands wove their way into her hair. “Please!”

“Please!” It repeated. “Say my name.”

Between sobs and clenched teeth, she managed to cry out a “Father!”

And the pain left her. It didn’t ease up, still driving into her forcefully, making her scream and groan and whine. But it wasn’t out of pain. The massive cock inside her wasn’t any smaller, it wasn’t going any gentler, but she felt a pleasant twinge with every inch it moved, inside or out. A dozen, a hundred, a thousand voices whispered sweetly in her ear. Her father could tell she was special, so very _right_. Where her mother had ultimately cracked, undone by the truth, she could bear it. He'd tell it to her, in time. 

“Good girl.” They said in unison as she moaned and shook her head, begging him to leave her alone. As it kept thrusting in, it leaned over here. Her tears didn’t blur the seven eyes staring into her own, as the chorus praised. “Welcome home.”

* * *

Sally woke up in bed. Not her bed, a dilapidated, creaky old, on an ancient, filthy matress, stained with all manner of… stuff. Every part of her was beyond sore, her head trobbing, heart pounding. Bruises and sucker marks ran up her body, covered in thick, dried or drying slime that cracked as she forced herself to a seat.

Dribbling from between her legs was a lot more of the slime. She had no idea how long it lasted, only measured by the times she shrieked and writhed and begged for it to stop or give her more. And she’d lost count well before it was finished with her. Before it filled her past the point she’d thought she’d burst with something cold and vile, then forced her to open wide.

Forced her.

The memory of begging, sticking her tongue out as hands grabbed her head and pulled her close hit her like a ton of bricks. The hallucination of her mother, or of an occultist in nineteenth century London, or a heretic in Rome, or a hundred other women begged, and so did she. Some used euphemisms, like blessing. Her mother, dazed and drooling as she was, tittered, and asked if he was finished. Sally just asked for cum.

Her fingers sinking into the sticky mess between her legs brought her back to reality. She pulled her hand away from herself, slammed her eyes shut, and willed herself to focus. This was all wrong. She needed to get out of here. The floor was covered in dead leaves as she walked through the door, down a hallway, into the library from earlier. Looked the same, chairs in the same position, the cups of tea were still there, still steaming. 

She sprinted through the kitchen, almost tripping on the thing on the floor, the bones of some animal that Sally refused to get a good look at. The front hallway wasn’t littered with books, but neat stacks of skulls.

Past the front door was blackness. Rather than a suburban neighborhood, Sally say a barren expanse as far forward as the eye could see. Pale blue stars dotted the sky, obscured by a massive shadow slowly circling overhead. When it wheeled around, red eyes staring, Sally backed into the house.

He’d be back for her, of course he would.

That thought lodged in her head, and wouldn’t leave. 

He wasn’t through with her yet. He would come for her, to make her scream and cry and beg all over, to show her everything--as utterly banal that Greek resort Island she'd heard about and always wondered about going to, to worlds under black suns where she would proclaim her love for him and he would show it his for her, to places where blood flowed from sacrifices she would make in his name. But until then, he needed to put her in a place she couldn’t get away from. Sally backed away from the door, and the voices on the other side, something skittering behind her as she did so. The kitchen was spotless new when she got back. 

The library stretched on and on.

She found herself, passing by shelf after shelf, going further away from the whispers and skitters, turning a corner, then running back afterwards. Bare feet slapped on tile and meat and wood and sand.

She ran, until she found those two chairs. The steaming mugs of tea. And the book. Pristine, pages white as if they were completely new, leather cover flawless. She tried to rip pages out, spit in it, anything to deface it.

None of it worked.

She couldn’t change the book. Couldn’t alter anything, blot out any story.

She knew there was only one thing she could do that _could_ change the book. Not could, would. She could the proper page, first clean sheet of paper after her mother’s story ended. The quill was in her hand after a period of staring at the book for how long.

And so, as she felt those long fingers curl around her body, tongues lapping at the sweat and cum on her neck, she began. It was automatic, her own words coming onto the page, her best attempt to distill all of it. How everything worked. How she had no one but him, how he would never let her go after finding her.

As something bent her over the table, pushing inside her dripping wet snatch without ceremony, she finished writing.

My father will never let me go.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was to your liking, Val_Creative! I saw this tag, and that you were okay with monsters and aliens, so I went a little crazy as I wrote it. Please let me know if you'd prefer something a little more grounded.


End file.
